CHAPTER XI
CHARLEMAGNE
"Silence!" said the stranger, sharply. "Don't use that word."
"Then what shall I call Your . . ."
"Call me nothing."
They were both silent; and this moment of respite was not one of those which go before the struggle of two adversaries ready for the fray. The stranger strode to and fro with the air of a master accustomed to command and to be obeyed. Lupin stood motionless. He had abandoned his usual provocative attitude and his sarcastic smile. He waited, gravely and deferentially. But, down in the depths of his being, he revelled, eagerly, madly, in the marvellous situation in which he found himself placed: here, in his cell, he, a prisoner; he, the adventurer; he, the swindler, the burglar; he, Arsène Lupin . . . face to face with that demi-god of the modern world, that formidable entity, the heir of Cæsar and of Charlemagne.
He was intoxicated for a moment with the sense of his own power. The tears came to his eyes when he thought of his triumph. . . .
The stranger stood still.
And at once, with the very first sentence, they came to the immediate point:
"To-morrow is the 22nd of August. The letters are to be published to-morrow, are they not?"